


SuperDead

by Windstorms



Category: Supernatural, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Explicit Language, Humor, Incest, M/M, Season/Series 06, Season/Series 11 Spoilers, Season/Series 14 Spoilers, Sibling Incest, Spoilers, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2019-11-26 14:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18181742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Windstorms/pseuds/Windstorms
Summary: Sam and Dean watch The Walking Dead season finale together. Everything is going okay until that Negan guy shows up.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I want it on record that I think the zombies on TWD are awesome, but I was just poking a little fun at the show. Nothing but love for both shows here. 
> 
> This is a re-posting of an old work.

Sam sets the timer on the microwave and presses the 'Start' button. He pours himself a soda and grabs a bowl and some napkins, humming absently while he waits for the familiar pop-pop-pop noise to start up.  
  
Dean would have a fit at Sam being in his domain, even if it was only to use the microwave. He smiles at the thought. What his brother doesn't know won't hurt either of them. Dean is on a supply run two towns over, which leaves Sam with a rare Saturday morning all to himself. He's still in his sleep pants and a loose t-shirt, and he hasn't bothered to shower or shave yet. With any luck, he'll have time to watch the season finale in peace before Dean gets back.  
  
It had aired almost a week ago, but he hasn’t been able to get any time alone to watch it yet. Dean’s been hovering over him like a mother hen ever since they got back from Idaho. It’s been all but impossible to get a few minutes to himself just to take a piss, let alone watch one of his favorite TV shows. And he hates watching _The Walking Dead_ with Dean. All he does is gripe about every minor plot detail and he talks during all the best parts.  
  
It’s kind of like their sex life, now that he thinks about it.  
  
The timer goes off then, so he pushes that disturbing realization aside. He grabs the popcorn from the microwave, dumps it into the bowl and heads towards the war room with his snacks. A few moments later, he’s seated at the table, mindful of how he sits so the position doesn’t pull uncomfortably at his stitches. He eagerly fires up his laptop and quickly navigates to a website that's not entirely legal. A couple of minutes later the episode is downloaded and ready to go.  
  
He’s instantly absorbed in the show, but as it switches from one scene to another he’s a little irritated that they aren’t showing what happened to Daryl after the events of the previous episode. It seems like they’re deliberately going out of their way to show where every character is _except_ Daryl. So not cool.  
  
He should’ve known better than to start watching this out in the open, because he’s barely made it through the opening scenes when he hears, “Dude. Please tell me you're not watching this crap again.”  
  
Dammit. So much for watching it in peace and quiet. He hadn’t even heard Dean come in, because the beginning had been so intense he’d almost forgotten how to even swallow the popcorn he was chewing. He twists around to see Dean coming down the stairs, a few bags in hand. He pauses the show, but he doesn’t get up to go and help. Dean can go put the stuff away himself and take a good sixty-five minutes or so to do it.  
  
He turns back to his laptop, hand hovering over the touchpad and about to resume watching. “It's a good show. You should give it a chance.”  
  
“Can't we watch Breaking Bad instead?”  
  
“No. _We_ are not watching anything together. _I_ am watching this. You're welcome to go do something else.” Like, put the groceries and the ammo away and go wash and wax the car, he thinks to himself.  
  
“But Breaking Bad-” Dean starts, already sounding like a petulant child.  
  
Sam cuts Dean off before he can get started on a proper tirade. “Every time we watch that show you go around saying 'bitch' for days. Even more than you usually do.” He refrains from adding that the last time they watched the show about the meth cookers Dean had gone around calling Sam a bitch at every opportunity and broken his own already disturbingly freakish record. Sam figures he's probably made his point and he'd rather not give Dean a reason to do it again. He undoubtedly would.  
  
“Fine,” Dean sighs dramatically. He sets the bags down on the table and pulls out a chair and takes a seat. Sam watches, frowning, as Dean immediately leans back and props his feet up on the table. There goes Sam’s only chance of getting to watch the show alone. “But the zombies on there aren't even realistic,” Dean adds sullenly, just in case Sam has forgotten the other four hundred times Dean’s said it whenever they watched this show.  
  
“Well. Since most people don’t think zombies really exist, how realistic do you think they could be?”  
  
“That brings me to my next point,” Dean says, reaching for Sam’s popcorn. When Sam opens his mouth to protest, Dean glances pointedly at Sam’s abdomen. “Popcorn’s not a good idea for someone with a gut wound. I’m just helping you out.”  
  
“Don’t you need to put the groceries away or something?”  
  
“Nah, there’s nothing in there that needs to go in the fridge right away,” Dean says nonchalantly. “So anyway. How the hell is it all these people went through their entire lives pre-zombie apocalypse and never saw a single zombie movie?”  
  
 _“What_?” Sam asks, his attention still focused on his popcorn that Dean is already happily munching on while motioning at the screen that is still paused on the credits.  
  
“Six seasons in and no one has ever said the word ‘zombie’, Sam. What the hell? Nobody ever saw _Night of the Living Dead_? Now, that’s a classic zombie movie that anybody with any common sense has seen. Calling them walkers is just shitty writing.”  
  
Sam slowly shakes his head. He already feels the beginnings of a headache starting up. It occurs to him then that if Sam killed Dean in the bunker, nobody would ever find the body. Besides, it’s the season finale of the most popular show on TV right now. No jury would convict him. “You know what? I’ll go watch this in my room.”  
  
Dean flaps his free hand at him like he’s urging Sam to stay in his chair. “No, no. It’s the last episode this season, right? I wanna see it. It’s supposed to have some new bad guy in it, isn’t it?”  
  
“Yeah,” Sam sighs. Dean makes a gesture that is Dean-speak for ‘hurry up’, so Sam reluctantly taps the button to resume the episode.  
  
The opening credits start up again, and Dean rolls his eyes and snorts derisively. Sam resists the urge to reach over and smack his brother upside the head, but only because he still has to be careful of his stitches and Dean's concussion. Sam really _likes_ the opening music. It’s creepy and it always gets him in the proper mood for the rest of the episode. This is going to be an unmitigated disaster of the annoying big brother variety.  
  
Dean has never been as into this show as Sam, because he’s always preferred real zombies to the Hollywood kind. They’ve tried to watch it together a few times, but it never goes well. Usually Dean ends up messing around on his phone while Sam yells at whatever drama is unfolding onscreen. Afterwards, Dean typically makes fun of him for being a girl and getting upset over a soap opera with zombies.  
  
Today will probably go no differently, because apparently Sam is just full of great ideas. Like trying to watch the show somewhere Dean could – and had – come upon him at any moment, when he could’ve just as easily watched the episode in his room. And been able to keep his popcorn all to himself.  
  
There’s a lull onscreen as the episode starts off with some basic filler setting up the plot, and Dean gets up suddenly and mumbles, “Back in a minute,” and heads into the kitchen. Sam’s about to holler after him for not taking any of the groceries with him when he hears the distinctive clink of what can only be Dean opening a beer bottle.  
  
He pauses the show again, and calls out, “Hey. If I can’t have popcorn then you still shouldn’t have alcohol with a concussion, dumbass.”  
  
Dean reappears in the doorway, beer in hand. “I’m gonna need a beer to get through all the ways they’re doing this apocalypse crap wrong. But I’ll be good and only have one, _mom_.”  
  
Sam narrows his eyes and Dean just stares back at him, an innocent expression on his face. Dean’s deflecting, as usual. Trying to rile him up by referencing their mother after they’d just had sex – albeit very careful sex - the night before. It’s equal parts disturbing and effective, so Sam ends up silently resuming the show while Dean sits back down with a smirk.  
  
Sam is still certain there had been more to it than a concussion and a couple of broken ribs because Dean had been really out of it for several days once they’d made it back to the bunker. Sam hadn’t been in any shape to investigate what was going on, but he’s going to find out eventually. He always does.  
  
“So does someone die in this one?”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“You know,” Dean gestures at the laptop with the beer bottle. “Big season ender thing, somebody usually dies for them to get big ratings and all.”  
  
“I don’t know,” Sam shrugs, then thinks it over for a moment. “Nobody really important has died yet this season, so probably.”  
  
Dean squints at him and tilts his head to the side, considering. “You didn’t read anything about it on the internet?”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“Really? Geekboy didn’t have to go and look up spoilers the second he could?”  
  
On the screen, Rick is gradually losing control of his plan as nearly the entire cast decides it’s a good idea to get in the RV for an undoubtedly ill-fated road trip in an attempt to save Maggie. Sam’s missing most of the dialogue while Dean quizzes him. “No. Been kind of busy with the whole sleeping and more sleeping thing,” he answers, pressing a hand over his stomach. The stitches are starting to itch more than they hurt, which means they’ll probably be ready to come out in a few more days.  
  
He hates to admit it, but the episode seems to be dragging a little. After a while, they start talking about what weapons they’d want handy in a real zombie apocalypse – Sam decides on a crossbow, while Dean goes with his blade from Purgatory. Sam’s just immensely relieved he didn’t say the First Blade. For once, it doesn’t even bother him much when Dean inevitably starts nitpicking all the little details that the show gets wrong. They talk about how tall the grass would realistically be by now, the complete lack of flies that should be swarming the dead bodies, and how long it would take before gasoline went bad. Dean decides he’s willing to suspend disbelief on that fact when Sam informs Dean he’d have to ditch the gas-guzzling Impala within the first few weeks in the event of a real zombie outbreak.  
  
Dean lets him have a little of the popcorn, but only a little, because he’s still firmly in overprotective mode. Sam retaliates by swiping the beer and drinking half of it down in one long gulp, just so Dean doesn’t drink more than he should. They’re mostly ignoring the show, but he doesn’t really mind.  
  
“So you’d take up the crossbow, huh? Where are you gonna get the bolts from? There’s no infinite ammo like on the show.” Dean grins at him. “Only infinite gasoline in our zombie apocalypse, that’s the rule.”  
  
“I’d get them from the same place Daryl gets them from,” Sam says without missing a beat. “The nearest Wal-Mart during all the commercial breaks.”  
  
Dean throws his head back and laughs, and after the week they’ve just had that’s okay. Hell, it’s _more_ than okay in Sam’s book. He’s been the cause of too much of Dean’s pain lately, so being a part of his happiness is totally worth missing most of his show. He finds himself smiling along with his brother, agreeing that yes, the actress that plays Maggie does look a little too much like Bela for him to really like the character.  
  
“Where would you go in a real zombie apocalypse?” Sam asks, glancing over at Dean.  
  
“Are you kidding? I’d stay right the fuck here. The bunker has everything we could need for years. Nothing can get in here. We’d be safe from zombies and all the crazy fuckers running around killing each other and trying to scavenge for supplies. We’d be set, man.”  
  
Sam shakes his head. “Nope. I’ll give you the never-ending supply of gas for the Impala. But that’s the only thing you get to keep.”  
  
Dean scowls. “Seriously?”  
  
“That was your own rule, Dean.”  
  
“Okay, fair enough,” he rubs his jaw and mutters, “huh”.  
  
Sam’s lips twitch in amusement as he waits for his brother to come up with an answer. On his laptop, he’s vaguely aware that Rick’s group is backing up the RV – again – to try to avoid Negan’s men. “I’m only halfway paying attention and even I can tell it’s a trap. Why don’t they just go back to Alexandria before they get caught?” Sam asks with a shake of his head.  
  
“Because that’d make way too much sense for this show,” Dean replies.  
  
Sam nods and gives a little half-hearted shrug, conceding Dean has a point. “So where are we going to hole up? An island? Costco? A department store in a mall?”  
  
Dean scoffs. “Amateur. An island can’t be defended and all the places like those that are left over from civilization are such a zombie survival cliché they’d be overrun by half the panicked population. We’d go somewhere like Alexandria. Some place that has walls. Only we’d fortify it better with a secondary set of walls, so nobody could ram their way in by knocking one wall down like the Governor did at the prison with his truck and that conveniently oh-so-easy to find tank.”  
  
“Okay. That’s actually not a half bad idea,” Sam agrees, smiling wryly.  
  
Dean holds up a hand. “Wait, I’m not done. After that, we’d build treehouses.”  
  
“You’re going all Swiss Family Robinson with your apocalypse plan?”  
  
Dean’s on a roll now though, so he keeps going like Sam hadn’t just insulted his idea. “They’d be up on sturdy posts. We’d have the town inside, with houses and an armory and a clinic. You’d grow a garden because you’re a hippie like that, so we’d never run out of rabbit food. Even if a zombie herd somehow got in, all we’d have to do is go to our treehouses. We’d build some rope bridges so we could get from house to house. That’s all we’d ever need.”  
  
“You’re talking about building treehouses and I’m the hippie.” Somehow Sam’s not surprised by Dean’s logic. “Wait though. Can’t zombies climb stuff?”  
  
Dean shakes his head, unaffected. “Heck if I know, but it doesn’t matter. All we’d need is to build some zig-zag bridges in between the treehouses with no railings. The way the zombies stagger around they’d fall right off.” Dean spreads his hands wide for emphasis. “Boom. We’re safe.”  
  
Dean’s obviously given this more than a minute or two of thought, and Sam has to laugh at the look of utter delight on his brother’s face. “I think your concussion was worse than we thought,” he says, but he’s still grinning.  
  
“Whatever.” Dean folds his arms across his chest and juts his chin towards the laptop. “My plan’s still better than anything Rick’s come up with in six years.”  
  
“Rick’s a good leader.”  
  
“How many people have gotten killed because of him?”  
  
“Well, it’s the apocalypse, man. People are going to die no matter who’s in charge,” Sam tells him. “Sometimes he has to make impossible decisions but he always tries to do the right thing.”  
  
“Sure he does,” Dean shrugs at the laptop. “At least when he’s not going completely batshit crazy.”  
  
“They’ve all been through hell. None of them would be sane by now if this were real,” he reasons. “He’s still a good man. He kind of reminds me of you, actually.”  
  
When Sam looks over at him, Dean's face is already flushing a deep pink shade. It quickly spreads across his cheeks until it reaches all the way to the tips of his ears. Sam loves it when Dean gets flustered like this, but he’d never admit it out loud. Finally, Dean splutters out, “I'll give you that sometimes I've gone a little batshit myself lately, but I’m not growing a crazy homeless guy beard.”  
  
Sam takes a swig from his soda. “That’s a good thing, because I don’t like beard burn.”  
  
When he glances back over at his brother to see how he took that, Dean’s looking back at him with a slow grin. “You want to make watching this thing more interesting?” Dean asks quietly.  
  
Sam somehow resists the urge to thump his head against the tabletop, but it’s a very near thing. “It’d probably be more interesting if I actually knew what’s going on.”  
  
“No it wouldn’t. They’re going to argue and do stupid shit until somebody gets killed because of it and then you’ll have to wait six months for a new episode.”  
  
Sam reconsiders his plan and decides knocking Dean’s head against the table might be the better idea, concussion and all.  
  
“What’d you have in mind?” he asks. He’s hoping if he lets Dean get whatever it is out of his system, maybe, just maybe, Dean will shut up long enough for him to get to watch some of the end of the show in relative silence.  
  
“A little wager on who’s gonna die,” Dean says, arching an eyebrow in obvious challenge.  
  
Sam bites his lower lip and pretends to think about it. He doesn't really have to think it over because he has a good idea of where this is going. “What are the terms?”  
  
“Whoever is right gets to top.”  
  
Sam isn't the least bit surprised. Since they share their finances, all of Dean's bets with him come down to sex. “You know after last night I’m not exactly up for that yet.” Between his wound and Dean's broken ribs they haven't been able to do much more than exchange hand jobs or rub off on each other for the last week.  
  
Dean leans over, right up into Sam's personal space. He tilts his head so he's almost nuzzling at Sam's jaw, but then he pulls away and whispers, voice low and rough against Sam's ear, “I’ll ride you, nice and slow, until I’m so sore I can’t walk straight for a week.”  
  
“You don’t walk straight now,” Sam retorts, but his dick twitches with interest at the mental image. At this rate they’re really never going to get through this episode. “What if we’re both wrong?”  
  
Dean shrugs. “Then we’ll just fuck around anyway.”  
  
That's a win-win situation as far as Sam's concerned. “Okay then,” he nods towards the laptop. “Pick your doomed character.”  
  
“Glenn. It's gotta be Glenn. It'd have the most impact because he's been around since the beginning and that creepy Bela lookalike chick is pregnant now,” Dean says.  
  
“I'm going with Daryl. I think they've been foreshadowing it all season.”  
  
Dean’s staring at him like he’s some kind of idiot. “He's a badass and he's everybody's favorite. They're not killing him off. I'm so gonna win this,” Dean says, leaning forward a little and staring at the screen, actually starting to care about what's happening on the show now that sex is on the line.  
  
By this time, Rick and his people have finally been captured. They are kneeling in the dirt looking frightened and defeated. Dramatic, ominous music swells as the camera pans across the group, and it's obvious the whole cat-and-mouse game has been building up to this moment. The door to the RV opens and a man wearing a leather jacket and carrying a baseball bat steps out. The lighting is pretty dark, but... he looks very familiar. Sam blinks and tilts his head to get a better look at the screen. Beside him, he hears Dean's breath catch.  
  
 _We pissing our pants yet?_  
  
Sam would know that voice anywhere. A tingle runs down his spine, and he leans forward as if drawn to the screen like a magnet. The new character, Negan, steps into the light and Sam gets his first good look at him. This man looks slightly older than their father had when he passed away, but he looks exactly like John Winchester would look by now if he had lived. There are a few small differences. His hair is styled a little differently. This man has a few more wrinkles and there's a little more salt and pepper in his beard, but the resemblance is so strong it's unbelievable. For a brief, hysterical moment, Sam wonders if he's looking at a demon that's slipped into his father's body to go star on a freaking television show.  
  
Dean is the first to find his voice. “What the hell is this shit?”  
  
“I... don't know,” Sam says slowly.  
  
“Seriously, Sam. He looks just like... how does he... What. The. Hell?”  
  
He shrugs, at a complete loss for words. His eyes are glued to the screen, where the spitting image of his father is now pacing back and forth in front of Rick's group, a maniacal grin plastered across his face.  
  
He really doesn't want to see any more of this, but he can't look away.  
  
They watch in complete silence for the first time since Dean sat down to join him. Negan happily tosses threats around while Rick looks like he's going to lose his lunch. Sam is all too familiar with that feeling himself right now.  
  
When Negan finally gets around to threatening Carl, it's just a little too surreal and fucked up to see this man that looks so much like their father interacting with a teenaged boy. His mind is racing through the possibilities. It can't actually be a demon because they burned the body. A skinwalker doesn't make any sense either, but how else can this be possible?  
  
 _Hey! Do not make me kill the little future serial killer._  
  
“Turn it off!” Dean orders, his voice coming out strangled.  
  
Sam blindly scrambles for his laptop. His hands are shaking so hard he fumbles the first few times he tries to shut it off. Eventually he gives up on trying to pause or stop the episode playback and slams the laptop lid down.  
  
Dean stands up so fast he nearly knocks his chair over. He points at the closed laptop like it's a cursed object. “What the fuck was that? First the freaky Bela chick and now this? Is Crowley running that stupid show?”  
  
Sam has never considered that, but it would actually explain a lot. All the gruesome deaths and the gore that somehow manage to keep the audience riveted and pull in huge weekly ratings sounds exactly like something Crowley would do just to kill some boredom. “I don't know,” he says again. Sam's brain seems to be stuck on those three words.  
  
The room is too quiet now. They look at each other, both wide-eyed and breathing hard. Dean rakes his hand through his hair and abruptly turns to leave the room. “You don't want to see who dies?” Sam asks weakly.  
  
Dean's answer is immediate. “No.” He stops and scratches at his neck. “Forget the bet too. That... was a total mood killer.”  
  
“Tell me about it,” Sam agrees, sighing with relief.  
  
Dean mumbles something under his breath and then turns back to the table. He gathers up the grocery bags. “I'll put these away. Then I'm gonna go find some kind of spell to erase that shit from my memory.”  
  
“Save enough ingredients for me.”  
  
Dean smiles ruefully at him before heading out of the room. He stops in the hallway and turns around, says, “Hey Sam?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“I like your hair much better than Daryl's. You'll always be my favorite long-haired crossbow guy in an apocalypse.”  
  
Sam grins despite himself. Dean usually threatens to cut his hair while Sam sleeps at least once a week. Coming from Dean, that's the equivalent of an 'I love you' and flowers all rolled into one. “Thanks.”  
  
Dean nods. “The rest of that episode though-” The grocery bags rattle as he waves a hand in the direction of the laptop.  
  
“Never happened.”  
  
“Definitely.”  
  
As Dean leaves the room, Sam stands up and collects the empty popcorn bowl and discarded drinks. Sex is the absolute last thing on his mind now, and his queasiness is subsiding as long as he doesn't think about Negan. He's sure Dean is joking about the spell, but once he cleans up a little, Sam is going to do some research. He's going to find out if Crowley really does have anything to do with this sadistic TV program.  
  
Somebody involved with that show sold their soul. It's the only reason he can think of that would explain how such a diabolical and messed up show could be this successful.


	2. No Way Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode coda to 14.20. Spoilers for the season finale.

Dean grips the piece of iron fence in his hand and waits. Sam is at his back, and it’s the only thing that gives him any comfort at all in this moment.

He’s scared. He hasn’t felt true fear like this in a long time. He feels an icy cold knot clawing at his stomach. He hadn’t felt anything like this even when Michael had full control.

The graveyard had instantly shifted from day to night with the casual snap of God’s fingers. Fog rolls across the ground, but it’s impossible to miss the massive horde of zombies that are lurching towards them through the sudden darkness. “It’s like the goddamn _Thriller_ video,” he mutters, eyes darting from side to side to see which zombie he’s got to be ready to strike against first.

“You finally got your chance for a real life Walking Dead,” Sam agrees solemnly.

Castiel silently flanks his other side, and the three of them turn as one in a slow circle and take in their perimeter. Rows upon rows of headstones have been shattered; the graves they adorned freshly blown apart by the force of the souls re-entering the decaying corpses resting six feet under until only a few moments ago.

It’s a large, sprawling graveyard and there’s too many undead swarming between them and where they left their cars. Running for the gates isn’t an option. 

The closest zombie lunges for him then, and he’s out of time to assess possible escape routes. He hefts the iron spike and drives it through the zombie’s forehead. It quickly falls to the ground, but another one is right there to take its place.

Without stopping to think about it, Dean takes down two more the same way. He’s keenly aware of the sounds of Sam and Cas fighting on either side of him, both of them being swarmed just as heavily as he is. There isn’t time to look around or assist his brother, all he can do is lift both arms and keep wildly swinging for the brain of the nearest zombie.

The fighting goes on for several minutes and they’re making absolutely no headway. His arms are already getting tired, but he doesn’t stop swinging until he hears Sam cry out. Then he instinctively freezes for a split second. “Sam!” A zombie gets far too close and Dean just barely manages to bring his weapon up and bash it in the head before it can land a bite on his arm.

“I’m okay,” comes Sam’s voice behind him after what feels like far too long. His brother sounds winded, but Dean’s going to have to take his word for it right now and hope it’s from the shoulder wound and not a zombie bite.

“There’s too many of them,” Castiel announces, always the one to state the obvious, even now.

Dean grunts in agreement. No matter how many they strike down, there’s still more and more coming. By now, the fallen bodies of the zombies are only making it more difficult for him to swing. He takes a small step backwards, and is grateful to feel Sam pressed up against his back, having matched his movement.

The problem with that is there isn’t really anywhere left for him to go. The zombies seem to be coming faster, undeterred by physical stamina the way Dean and Sam are. Castiel, for his part, is probably taking down twice the reanimated souls that they are able to. Yet they still keep coming.

The once serene and peaceful graveyard is alive with the inhuman sounds of the dead. Through the dense fog, Dean can see more zombies spilling through the gates in the distance. He doesn’t have time to stop and wonder if God has reanimated some of the dead outside of the graveyard or perhaps killed half the population.

He swings again and again, and his arms are burning more with each thrust. He grunts with exertion as he pulls the iron spike out of a zombie’s head - and shit, even in this utter chaos his mind almost called the rotting thing a walker thanks to Sam’s favorite television show. He grins to himself, deciding to tell Sam about it later.  

Dean stabs another zombie in the head and it goes down easily, but it’s quickly replaced by another one that pushes him forcefully up against Sam. Dean attempts to shove it away but can’t find purchase, his boots slipping in the mess of bodies beneath his feet. Before he knows it, there’s a zombie next to him, and another right behind it. The combined weight pushing upon him is almost crushing him, and he can’t lift his weapon up to attempt to slow any of them.

“Close your eyes,” Cas intones, and that’s all the warning either of them get. Dean obeys, knowing what’s coming next. “Enough!” Cas bellows.

Dean can see a piercing bright white light through his tightly closed eyelids, but he trusts Cas. He ducks his head and holds up his arms to fend off the zombies, but he doesn’t look.

The weight is lifted off his chest and he staggers forward. Just as suddenly as the first horde of zombies appeared, they’re gone. The graveyard isn’t quite silent, but it’s immensely quieter. Dean opens his eyes and lifts his head, slowly, and looks around.

Cas did it. He blasted enough of the zombies that were surrounding them to give them some breathing room. He feels Sam moving around behind him, also taking stock of their situation. There’s still zombies blocking them from getting out of the graveyard, but there’s a few buildings they could take shelter in.

There’s a crypt to their west, and what looks like a small cottage that probably belongs to the groundskeeper to the south. The crypt is closer, but there’s zombies stumbling up the stairs. There’s probably more of them spilling out down inside the depths of the crypt.

“Go!” Cas orders them.

Dean looks incredulously at his friend. “You’re coming with us,” he says. Despite the lingering tension between them over Jack, he doesn’t want to leave him behind.

Castiel silences him with an intense look. “I’ll hold them off. You have to go now.” Even in the dark, his blue eyes are as piercing as cold steel. Dean opens his mouth to protest again, but Sam is tugging on his arm. “Go. I’ll follow when I can.”

The zombies are still coming, and there simply isn’t time to argue about it. Sam grabs Dean by his jacket sleeve and they race towards the cottage. Some of the zombies turn towards them as they run. If Dean still believed in a benevolent God he’d send up a prayer that the door isn’t locked.

For the first time today, luck is on their side and the door falls open as soon as Sam turns the door handle. They stumble through the open doorway together and they go from trying to see whatever was moving under the dimly moonlit sky to being completely blinded by the sudden pitch black darkness of the small building.

Beside him, Dean hears Sam fumbling along the wall for a light switch. Dean gasps in lungfuls of air, trying to catch his breath. He can still hear the growls of the zombies behind them but he can’t see a godforsaken thing. He stares into the blackness, stunned, and says, “Sam.”

“Got it,” Sam says, and flips a switch. The room is bathed in a soft glow, and there’s no zombies in sight. That’s more than enough for now.

They slam the door closed and look around the room to see what they can use as a possible barricade. Sam points at a wide wooden cabinet on the far wall and Dean nods. He hurries over to one side of it while Sam goes to the other. They each grasp one side of the cabinet. Not even bothering to count to three, they both start shoving the cabinet towards the door as fast as they can.

Once they’ve gotten it pushed up against the door, they both stop to catch their breath. “You okay?”

“Yeah. You?”

Dean nods, but now that the immediate danger is over, he needs more than words. He turns and reaches out for Sam, and Sam steps into his arms willingly. He runs his hands up Sam’s sides, being careful of his shoulder. “No bites?” he asks, hands moving up to slide along Sam’s neck to cup his jaw.

Wordlessly, Sam shakes his head. He’s running his eyes and hands all over Dean, doing a physical checklist of his own. He looks as rattled as Dean feels. Maybe worse. Sam leans into his touch, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. He’s bloody and sweaty, but he hasn’t been bitten. That’s all that matters.

“I really wouldn’t mind that guy from your show that looks like Dad showing up with his freaky bat right about now,” Dean admits, his voice almost a whisper in Sam’s ear.

Sam huffs out a quiet, shaky laugh. “Negan. Yeah. He’d probably come in handy in a situation like this.”

“Always told you that show wasn’t realistic. My arms hurt like hell. No way Rick can kill that many zombies at a time. For the record, I changed my mind. I fucking hate zombies.”

“Tell me about it,” Sam says, wincing as he adjusts his shoulder. Dean frowns. He wants to assess the wound, but they don’t have time yet.

Dean doesn’t want to talk about a dumb show, or zombies, or even Dad’s doppelganger. Emotions so close to the surface, all he cares about is Sam. He pulls back and promises, “We’re gonna get out of this.” He lifts his hand up, laying his hand along Sam’s stubbled jaw, and then he closes the space between them, his lips finding Sam’s. 

Sam stills against him in surprise for a split second, and then he returns the kiss, pressing his lips tighter against Dean’s, his fingertips moving up to cup Dean’s cheek. Dean parts his lips, and Sam opens for him, tongue meeting Dean’s halfway. Suddenly it’s desperate, bordering on frantic, not anything close to their usual slow and gentle exploration. More of a confirmation that the other is there, and whole, and safe.

After a few moments, Dean draws back just a little, tilting his forehead against Sam’s. Sam inhales a sharp breath and then chases Dean’s lips again, leaning in and kissing Dean deeper, more insistently.

He’d stay like this all night, wrapped around his brother forever, if he could. But they have more pressing things to worry about. He pulls away and takes a steadying breath. Sam gives him a little nod, silently letting him know he’s okay.

Dean swallows tightly and looks off to the side. They’re so far from okay that even GPS coordinates couldn’t get them out of this clusterfuck. “So what made you think shooting _God_ would be a good idea?” Dean asks.

Sam’s quiet for a moment. “I don’t know. You killed Death. Seemed kind of fitting,” Sam hisses softly through his teeth and re-adjusts the makeshift bandage on his shoulder. “Didn’t really stop and think.”

“Yeah. I know how that goes,” Dean concedes. He starts pacing, looking around the small dwelling for anything that might buy them some time.

There’s a whole lot of nothing. Cemeteries are a place for the dead to rest. Not so much to stockpile weapons for when God decides it’s time to let them walk the earth again.

If they could get out of here and get back to the bunker… Dean runs a hand over his sweaty forehead. He has no idea if the bunker is even still standing after something like this.

They’ve never experienced anything like this.

“Dean.” Sam’s voice sounds pained, but Dean keeps his focus. It’s the gunshot, not a bite. “Do you think it’s all been some kind of game to him? All this time? Our whole lives?”

Dean doesn’t want to think about the possibilities of that. There’s a loud, slow thump on the door. Then another. And another. He knows it isn’t Castiel on the other side. The wooden door creaks ominously with each sickening thud.

There isn’t time to think about it. In the back of his mind though, he wonders if they’ve always been nothing more than pawns on a chessboard. Sam. Mom. Dad. Jess. Bobby. Jo. Ellen. Ash. Cas. Azazel. Meg. Crowley. Ruby. Lisa and Ben. Kevin. Benny. Charlie. Even Jack. Everyone they’ve ever fought for or against.

Were they ever making their own decisions when they decided to fight? Did their lives spent as hunters even matter?

Was it all for nothing, like Sam thinks?

There will be time for playing Monday morning quarterback later. Right now, they have to find a way out of this. “Don’t,” Dean says, stepping back directly into Sam’s line of sight and reaching a hand up to grasp his brother’s uninjured shoulder.

Sam closes his eyes and looks down, looking so defeated in that moment that Dean’s heart shatters a little. “Hey,” he says. “Whatever that dick did to us, to everyone we’ve ever known - you and me - we’re real. Everything that’s ever happened between us, Sammy. That was all us. Our choice. I don’t regret any of it. The good or the bad. You hear me?”

Sam lifts his head and looks him in the eye, and he looks more like himself for the first time tonight since he pulled the trigger. “Thank you,” Sam whispers. “I believe you. I don’t regret anything either.”

Dean tries for a reassuring smile. “Okay. So. You got any ideas to get us out of this mess?”

Sam looks around the small room, taking in the bookshelves lining the walls and another cabinet on the other side of the room. There’s a small cluttered desk taking up the middle of the room, a rickety cot shoved against the northern wall, and an old shovel propped up in the corner. The groundskeeper obviously wasn’t preparing for a zombie apocalypse.

“I have my cell on me,” Sam says suddenly. “Maybe if we can contact Rowena-”

“She can do some kind of mojo and get us out of here.” Dean nods. “It’s worth a shot.” If that doesn’t work… maybe some of the old books in the room will hold something useful other than gravedigging specifications. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d run across a groundskeeper that dabbled in necromancy on the side. He’s just about to start rifling through some of the books when there’s another hollow thump against the door.

He knows it’s still not Cas.

Sam already has his phone out of his pocket. Dean motions to him to keep going and moves across the room to grab the shovel. He goes to the door and jimmies the cabinet back a little so he can wedge the shaft of the shovel into the door handle, making it more secure.

“No fucking signal,” Sam says, and slams his phone down on the desk.

“Try moving around the room,” Dean suggests. The door starts rattling under his hands, and he has to apply pressure to the shovel to hold it in place.

“All eight square feet,” Sam muses. “I’m sure that’ll work.”

There’s the familiar sound of fluttering wings, and Cas appears next to the desk. Sam and Dean both stop what they’re doing and look at him in surprise. “Cas?” Dean asks.

Castiel looks uncharacteristically disheveled, but his face remains impassive as ever. “I could not hold them back any longer. They’re coming.”

Dean nods, feeling the door give a little more. “Yeah, I kinda got that impression.”

“Did you find anything of use here?” Cas asks. His voice sounds a little off, but Dean can’t quite place it. Everything they thought they knew has been turned on its head tonight.

“I’m trying to call Rowena, but I can’t get a signal,” Sam jabs at his phone but it’s clearly still not working.

Castiel takes a step closer to Sam and touches the phone. It glows briefly, and Sam raises an eyebrow. “Try it now.”

“Didn’t know you could get cell phone service,” Dean quips, gritting his teeth as the door starts to shake harder.

Sam raises the phone to his ear and starts talking rapidly, apparently having gotten through to the witch. Dean leans his back against the door and feels relief wash over him, real hope flooding through him for the first time tonight, despite the constant blows he can feel emanating through the door.

He glances over at Cas, and that’s when he notices his friend is holding his hand tightly around his forearm. The sleeve of his trenchcoat is bloody around his fingers. “Cas?”

Castiel looks over at him, but remains silent. Dean’s grip on the shovel slackens and the pounding on the door instantly becomes louder, but he barely even notices. Sam falls quiet too, and for a moment, the only sounds that fill the room are the increasing thumps on the other side of the door and Rowena’s hysterical voice over the phone line.

“Cas, what happened?” Sam asks.

Dean already knows, but he can’t look away as Cas peels back the sleeve of his trenchcoat revealing a long, bloody gash in his arm.

“I was bitten,” Cas says simply.

Sam looks on in horror, the phone all but forgotten in his hand. Dean wets his suddenly dry lips. “Can you… can’t you heal it?”

“I can’t. I don’t know what I can do. I couldn’t heal Jack. I can’t heal this. I could only exterminate some of the undead when I should have been able to handle them all. I could teleport in here, and fix your phone,” he nods briefly at the phone in Sam’s hand. “But I can’t teleport us all out of here. I can feel my powers slipping away.”

Sam and Dean exchange a worried look while Cas continues gazing at his arm curiously.

What happens to an angel that’s rapidly losing their powers and has been bitten by a zombie?

The pounding on the door increases and Dean feels the wood starting to give way. Sam holds the phone back up to his ear. “Rowena. Hurry.”


End file.
